


Pick and choose

by protaganope



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Degradation, M/M, Multi, Office Sex, Polyamory, Promiscuity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 00:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17632730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protaganope/pseuds/protaganope
Summary: “You just had sex, didn’t you.”Hamilton is the office slut, and Burr is totally okay with that.





	Pick and choose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waitfor_it](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitfor_it/gifts).



Burr’s eye flicks up to the sauntering figure approaching his office. Ginger hair, peacock gait, intelligent eyes and a dumbass frame. The wall is glass, so he quickly identifies the short man as none other than Alexander Hamilton himself.

The door opens with a mild protest and Burr holds his tongue as the man sits before being asked. Hamilton sits in opposition to Burr, from direction to posture. While both of them sit polite enough, backs straight as anything, Burr clasps his hands and keeps his feet parallel, rooted to the floor. Hamilton has one ankle propped up over his thigh, one hand grasping the arm of the chair and the other twirling a section of that rebelliously amber hair.

Red hair that was curiously splayed. It was blatantly obvious it had been patted down hurriedly in a failed attempt to control the tousled mane.

Hamilton’s eyes are bright, baby blues glossy and lashes long. They clump together slightly, as if they were wet, and Aaron almost makes to comment on this before his focus is caught by the plump, rosy shading of Alexander’s lips. He leans back in his chair, mind composing.

Hamilton sees this as his chance to speak. Of course he does.

“Hey, Burr.” The words are teased with a slight grin, practically glowing and all too cheerful for sense.

Burr sighs, “Good morning, Alexander.”

Hamilton shifts in his seat. They stare at each other for a moment, and Aaron wonders just what he’s done to deserve to get this so early in the week.

They both end the pregnant silence at the same time. Hamilton breaks off first, surprisingly.

“Hey so-“

“You just had sex, didn’t you.” Not a question, a statement more than anything. Hamilton colours slightly, clever fingers winding that long section of hair a little faster. “It’s not even noon yet, Alexander.” Burr chastises, shaking his head, exasperated. 

Eyes darting around, the man is clearly grasping for something, some intelligent thought or murmur, before finally meeting Burr's.

“Wanna make for my third round of the day?” Straight to the point. And the fucker even has the audacity to smile. Aaron sucks in a breath through his teeth, and closes his eyes.

He can’t just say yes, can he?

Hamilton helps— or, maybe that’s the wrong word. He jumps from his chair (because it stopped being Burr’s the moment the tomcat sat down in it) and leans back on the inside of Aaron’s desk, facing him unabashedly. 

He takes one of Aaron’s hands, turns it over, and presses those full lips to the skin. Doesn’t seem to care that he nearly makes him swallow his own tongue. 

“Okay?”

“Yes,” Burr breathes, and feels the smirk deepen against his hand.

Hamilton seems to sense the heavy atmosphere and seeks to change it. He licks where his lips had been and laughs as Aaron recoils. “Hamilton-“

The smaller man cuts him off as he climbs into his lap, wrapping his arms round the back of Burr’s neck, knees either side of his thighs. The scent of coffee dances into his senses, and though he’s temporarily blindsided, it does eventually pass. 

Aaron knows what Hamilton likes, has seen it before, time and time again.

He presses his lips to Alexander’s neck and doesn’t even have to do anything. Hamilton gasps like he’s never once had oxygen, angles his head back and grinds forward into Aaron’s lap. Pliant and desperate, Aaron thinks. And so he sucks the deepest bruise he can into Alex’s skin. Marks him up so well he knows Hamilton will still be thinking of him for weeks to come. 

Marks him like he’s dying to show him off to a crowd, providing evidence of just how much of a whore he really was.

Hamilton was the kind of person who did not appear know the meaning of secrecy. Instead of the old phrase, show don’t tell, the man appeared to sue to do both, because lord, the man could talk. 

It is telling that when he runs a hand over his hip, Hamilton’s motions lag a little. Sore, perhaps, Burr thinks, and presses his thumb into the place where delicate skin stretches over bone. 

Hamilton’s back arches and it’s the most beautiful goddamn thing Aaron has ever seen in his life.

_ “Please, please, please, please, please,” _ he’s whining, and he doesn’t even need to  elaborate for Burr to know he needs more. So he makes to stand, suppresses a smirk as Hamilton curses, scrambling in his lap and trying not to fall, before twisting the man around and pushing him to brace the table.

Hamilton makes a high, pleased sound that is heavy in assonance, and it's a breath of fresh air, just as refreshing. It gifts a renewed enthusiasm into Burr’s bones, has him holding stronger to try and give Hamilton a reminder of just how good he truly was. Hamilton at first had his palms supporting him, fingers spread and immovable, but as Aaron untucks himself and pulls his trousers just low enough to rub his member at the makings of his ass, he loses this. Collapses to his elbows, and is shoved forward with each thrust of Aaron's hips. The slight hiss of the papers is just as sensuous as the dull rub of skin against wood.

“Who were you with just now, then?” Burr asks quietly. Hamilton turns his head best he can, breath staggering and neck gorgeously flushed pink. The marks Burr left are a little less visible with the blush, but they are darkly obtrusive, undeniable for what they are.

“Angelica,” He pronounces the vowels in that breathy, distracted way that has Aaron’s stomach clenching in desire and his next thrust is heavier. He pulls down Hamilton’s lower half and presses two fingers to his entrance, curious.

Hamilton groans. Too easy.

“Tell me the truth.” His voice is low, warning. He knows it does things to his partner because he grinds back against his fingers, taking his fingers deeper. Burr adds another, but. There’s no need, really.

Alexander’s hole is perfectly stretched, and already dripping with come.

The words come out hurried, slurred and desperate.

“J-” A moment, an intake of breath, “Jefferson was there, too. I didn’t,” He’s clearly struggling to utter proper sentence as Aaron crooks his fingers, delighted. “Lie,” this word was strained, evidently forced out.

Burr retracts his fingers. “Don’t lie to me again.” And he presses his member into that beautiful heat. 

Hamilton clenches around him, a ragged moan ripped from him, his legs giving way, knees bowing and thighs coming to rub together. He could barely say he was supporting his own weight now, if not for the steady fuck of Burr’s dick against the rigid desk, he’d have all but melted into the floor.

There’s no rush for instant satisfaction here, so Aaron takes his time. Every move he makes reaps more than enough reward, anyway. No one could possibly contrive a sweeter sound than this whore in heat, he thinks, and grinds his hips down, balls hitting Hamilton’s with a muffled clap. This sets new pleasure in his veins, as he goes deeper; rubs a little harder against Hamilton’s prostate and bites at the side of his neck again, not going any softer since he knew the man would complain if he tried. A strangled moan leaves Hamilton, jumping up an octave as Burr used one hand to grip that tauntingly long hair. Basically begging to be pulled.

There were many things they could do now. Could have Hamilton stammer out why he had sought Burr, of all people, at such an hour. Burr could have pulled him tight, demanded he say allowed what things Burr held over Jefferson, or Angelica, or all the other people working in the office that Hamilton had likely already dallied with. He could inquire the finer differences between the feel of cock. Burr wondered distantly if Jefferson had an insanely massive dick, to match his personality. 

One that would attract Hamilton into bed, despite the two’s incessant quarrelling.

He’s worked himself up, he realises, as he lets out a taken murmur to Hamilton’s ear. Licks hot and dirty at the shell and laughs as Hamilton squirms, caught between pleasures and distracted. Hamilton’s dick has been leaking into the fabric of his pants, which are still bunched around his ankles in that obscene, occupied way. 

He jacks his member in time with his thrusts and the sounds are  _ delicious _ .

Burr reaches his end first, this time. He sees it coming, tries to delay it, but when he knows he’s about to tip over the edge he pulls out his trick. Hamilton’s been babbling this whole time, a steady stream of consciousness detailing everything and absolutely nothing at all. As he recognises that he’s climbing, he mentions this, of course, so Burr sees his chance. Hamilton cries out, but it’s nothing next to the broken gasp and shudder that tears from him as Burr spits out every derogatory remark into the air, a few slurs and just enough bite to his tone that when Burr does finally come, Hamilton is so wrapped up in his own pleasure that he doesn’t even notice.

“Sir,” He sighs out, distant, skin wet with perspiration, “Sir,” there it was. “Coming-”

“Then come, slut.”  
  



End file.
